Saturday morning sunlight filtered through the kitchen curtains, painting stripes on the linoleum floor. Darren stirred in his bed, the bruises from Brock's beating still tender but fading to yellowish marks under his shirt. He stretched carefully, wincing a bit at the pull in his ribs, but the pain was manageable now school clinic ice packs and Mom's arnica cream had worked wonders. No school today, thank goodness. Weekends were for recharging, tinkering, dreaming big without hallways full of jerks.
The smell of pancakes wafted upstairs, pulling him out of bed like a magnet. He threw on jeans and a hoodie, ran a hand through his bedhead hair, and headed down. Emily was already at the table, swinging her feet and drowning her stack in syrup.
"Morning, bruise boy," she teased, spotting the faint mark on his cheek he'd tried to hide with a bandage.
"Shut up, Em," Darren grumbled good-naturedly, sliding into his chair. Mom turned from the stove, flipping another pancake with a flourish. Linda Hayes apron on, hair in a messy bun smiled warmly, but her eyes lingered on his face.
"You sure you're okay from that 'fall' at school, honey? Looks rough."
Darren nodded quickly, piling bacon on his plate. "Yeah, Mom. Stairs are killer. Pass the OJ?"
Dad was there too, Mike Hayes, sipping coffee and reading the local paper headlines about farm prices and an upcoming county fair. He folded it when Darren sat down, his grease-stained hands a permanent fixture even on days off. The garage was closed Saturdays unless emergencies, so family time was sacred.
"Mornin', son. Sleep okay?"
"Like a rock," Darren lied. The asteroid dream hadn't returned, but echoes of it nagged at him during quiet moments. They ate in comfortable chatter: Emily babbling about her soccer practice, Mom reminding everyone about grocery shopping later, Dad grumbling about a tricky transmission job yesterday.
Halfway through his second pancake, Darren set down his fork. "Hey, Dad? Garage open today? Mind if I hang out, maybe learn some stuff? Like how cars really work under the hood."
Mike's eyebrows shot up, a grin cracking his weathered face. He wasn't used to Darren showing interest in mechanics, space was the kid's domain but it lit him up like a spark plug firing.
"Hang out? Heck yeah! Been waitin' for you to ask. Finish eatin', then meet me out back. Got an old Chevy needs tunin'."
Emily snorted. "Darren fixing cars? He'll probably turn it into a rocket."
Mom laughed, swatting her with a dish towel.
"Let him try new things, Em."
Darren felt a warmth in his chest Dad happy, that was rare amid the long hours. He scarfed the rest, helped clear plates, then headed out. The garage was attached to the house, a cluttered haven of tools, oil cans, and half-disassembled engines. Sunlight streamed through the open door, dust motes dancing in the beams. Mike was already there, rolling up his sleeves, a radio playing classic rock low in the background Springsteen crooning about roads and dreams.
"Alright, kiddo," Dad said, popping the hood on the Chevy, a rusty '92 pickup belonging to a neighbor.
"Cars ain't rockets, but they got principles. See here? This is the engine block heart of the beast. Four-stroke cycle: intake, compression, power, exhaust."
Darren leaned in, peering at the maze of wires and metal. He'd seen diagrams online, but hands-on was different. The smell of oil and gasoline hit him, earthy and real.
"So, like a piston compressing fuel-air mix, then spark ignites it?"
Mike nodded, impressed. "Smart. Yeah, exactly. Watch."
He pointed to the spark plugs, explaining ignition timing, how the battery sent juice through the alternator to keep things charged. Darren asked questions nonstop:
"What about torque? How's that tie into Newton's laws force rotating the wheels?"
Dad chuckled, wiping sweat from his brow.
"You're bringin' your school smarts in here. Torque's twistin' force, yeah. Transmission gears it up or down dependin' on speed."
He handed Darren a wrench, letting him loosen a bolt on the oil filter. Hands got dirty quickly, black streaks on his palms, but it felt good tangible, like building something.
They spent hours,Dad showing fuel injection systems, how sensors fed data to the computer brain ECU, he called it.
"Modern cars got more tech than my first spaceship," Mike joked, though he'd never left Montana. Darren was amazed; parallels to rocketry everywhere. Fuel pumps like propellant feeds, radiators cooling like spacecraft heat shields.
"Why don't you do this more, Dad? Teach me stuff?"
Mike paused, staring at the engine. "Garage keeps me busy, son. But yeah, shoulda sooner. Proud you're curious beats kids glued to phones."
By noon, they were greasy and satisfied, the Chevy purring after a tune-up. Mom called them in for sandwiches, ham and cheese, chips on the side. Sitting on the porch, Darren flexed his oily fingers.
"Thanks, Dad. Cool seeing how it all connects. Like, energy transfer could apply to thrusters someday."
Mike ruffled his hair. "Anytime son."
"Am meeting Alex this afternoon".
Darren laughed, washing up and grabbing his bike from the shed.
The afternoon sun was high, perfect for heading to Alex's. He pedaled through town past the diner where Mom worked, the library with its astronomy section he braided, fields stretching golden under blue sky. The ride cleared his head, wind whipping his hoodie.
Alex lived on the edge of town, a modest house with a big backyard bordering woods. His folks were cool, dad a teacher, mom a nurse, always encouraging the boys' experiments. Darren propped his bike against the fence, knocking on the back door.
"Yo, enter the lab!" Alex yelled from inside. He was in the garage converted to a workshop, benches cluttered with circuits, wires, drone parts scattered like a tech explosion.
"Dude, perfect timing," Alex said, high-fiving him. Curly hair wilder than ever, glasses smudged. "Got the drone frame ready. Modified the camera and added a zoom lens from that old scope you gave me. And battery pack for longer flight."
Darren's eyes lit up. They'd been building this for weeks: a quadcopter drone for aerial pics, maybe scout stargazing spots or just mess around.
"Sweet. Range extension? I brought extra props and that servo motor from Dad's junk."
They dove in, tools clinking. Alex explained the mods: upgraded antennas for better signal, covering more distance—up to a mile if tuned right. "See, boost the transmitter power, but don't wanna fry the FCC rules," he grinned.
Darren soldered wires, his new garage skills helping—steady hands from wrenching bolts.
"Tie this into the flight controller. Add GPS module so it doesn't get lost in the woods."
Hours flew. They tested indoors first, drone buzzing like an angry bee, camera feeding to a laptop. Grainy video showed the room, then zoomed on a poster of Einstein. "Crystal clear!" Alex whooped.
"Now the rocket," Darren said, pulling a kit from his backpack a small model, Estes brand, with parachute recovery. They'd prepped it last week: balsa fins, nose cone, C6 engine for decent altitude.
"Backyard's too small woods?" Alex suggested. They packed up, hiking into the trees bordering his property. Pines towered, needles crunching underfoot, birds chirping overhead. Found a clearing, set the launch pad a PVC pipe stuck in dirt.
"Countdown?" Alex asked, phone timer ready.
Darren nodded, heart racing like a real NASA op. "T-minus 10...9..."
Ignition: whoosh! The rocket shot up, trailing smoke, climbing 500 feet easy. Arc perfect, then parachute deployed, floating down gentle into bushes.
"Yes!" they fist-bumped, retrieving it singed but intact. "Imagine scaling this orbital insertion," Darren mused.
Alex laughed. "One step. Next, add camera to the rocket."
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows. They launched twice more, tweaking fins for stability, talking dreams: Alex into robotics, AI drones for Mars; Darren space bound.
By dusk, biking home, Darren felt alive family bonds, friend adventures, hands-on wins. Bruises forgotten, ambitions fueled.
But as stars emerged, that dream asteroid flickered in mind. Gears and flights today; tomorrow, who knew?
Dinner was burgers, family recounting days.
"Learned car stuff, built drones, launched rockets," Darren summarized.
Mike beamed. "My boy's a renaissance man."
Night fell, telescope out. The universe whispered promises, Montana quiet below.